Page 60 of Forgiving Utah

Nah. With a grin, I snuggle deeper into his blankets and ask a question instead.

What's your snake's name? She keeps staring at me.

Probably because she's not used to assholes being in there. I call her The Ex Wife.

I chuckle.

You're the biggest asshole I know, so if she's used to you, she'll get used to me.

I'm serious, Dev. Get out of my room.

I don't think I will.

Ignoring his text, I go back to my research, thankful to be off the couch for once. When I'd gotten back from walking to the store earlier, Logan had been deep into a work meeting in the living room. I don't know why he wouldn't do that shit in his room, but I'd just simply waved and then shut myself in here to give him some privacy.

Glad I did, honestly, because Christian's space is cozy.

The python's heated lamp casts an ambient red glow, just bright enough that no light is needed. A humidifier on top of the dresser bubbles quietly next to a framed photo of Christian’s family. From what I can tell, he's the oldest. Two sisters, a brother, and his mom. I wonder where his dad is, or if he even knows him.

Pulling up our messages again, I decide to ask that very question.

Do you have a dad?

He responds instantly, almost like he'd been waiting for another text.

Obviously, dumbass. I didn't just spring out of the ground.

That's all he says, though. Nothing else.

Where is he?

Fuck if I know. You still in my bed?

Rolling my eyes at the subject change, I snap a selfie of myself with my head on his pillow and send it.

You better be gone when I get back. I'm serious.

I have no intention of leaving. At least, not until someone knocks softly on the door.

“Hey,” Logan calls out, “I'm done with my meeting. And I uh… made pasta if you're hungry.”

My stomach growls in response.

With a sigh, I get up and throw on a pair of Christian’s pants. Eventually, I'll need to buy my own clothes, but for now, I like wearing his shit. Mostly because it seems to piss him off and turn him on at the same time.

When I exit the room, Logan’s sitting at the kitchen island with a steaming bowl in front of him. Another sits in the spot across from his stool, and I pad over to study the chicken alfredo he made.

“You didn't have to cook for me,” I say, sliding onto the stool with my mouth watering.

Logan scans my bare chest. “I didn't cook for you. I made myself dinner and had extra. Figured I'd save some for everyone.”

Shoveling a full fork into my mouth, I almost groan when I notice the garlic bread he sat in the middle of the counter. “Thanks. Been a minute since I've eaten anything homemade.”

Fuck, I miss meals made from scratch. They fed me at the jail when I first got booked, but I'd never consider that mystery meat ‘home-cooked’. Though I have been using my one free meal at The Prospector on French fries. I should probably eat something a little more nutritious, but I haven't had much of an appetite lately.

“It's nothing special,” he shrugs, taking a sip of water. “Boxed noodles and sauce from a jar. I'm not like a chef or anything.”

“Well, it tastes good. So thanks.”